


spell in ink, prayer in blood

by antagonists



Series: Kannagara [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 13:03:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10831842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: He knows, of course, that Yusuke would follow him anywhere. Even to the end of the world, even to death, even into a god’s cruel and golden embrace.





	spell in ink, prayer in blood

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ guess me writing drabbles of all the phantom thieves w akira in this au is a thing now

 

* * *

 

 

 

Akira visits a golden shrine in the evenings, sometimes, when he doesn’t think he’s being followed. Not by any humans, at least. It is high in the mountains, so high that the air is thin, and the clouds a silent sea of white. It has parted, once, when Akira had set his shikigami aflame and lit the emptiness with searing blue. Then one step further, and Yusuke could see no more.

 

“I’ve tried following you before,” Yusuke says carefully, one ear turning towards the sound of wind through the trees. “I could not move past the gate that you entered. The one by the mountain south of here.”

 

Akira blinks slowly, as if to play innocent.

 

“You realize that we are but playthings to higher beings,” Yusuke sighs. “So many of us are considered gods, spirits, as you will. There are beings we count never begin to fathom, and yet,” he trails off, looking quite dejected and perturbed.

 

“I do not think any less of you,” he says after a while, reaching out to brush through Yusuke’s hair. “For being unable to follow me into certain places, Yusuke.”

 

“That’s pleasing to hear, but you know that is not what I meant.”

 

Akira is quiet for a moment. Tilts his head thoughtfully. “You’ve become more perceptive.”

 

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten what I am,” Yusuke murmurs, closing his eyes and leaning into the continued touch. “Odd we may be, but we have our ways of getting what we want. You taste of light, of the end of the world.” He presses closer, breath warm and slow, “and I won’t rest until I’ve attained it.”

 

He knows, of course, that Yusuke would follow him anywhere. Even to the end of the world, even to death, even into a god’s cruel and golden embrace. He would kill a god if Akira told him to.

 

(Or die trying).

 

It is late in the afternoon. The sunset casts strange light into Yusuke’s eyes, splintered gold and dark, shadows over the sharp angle of his jaw. Akira stares a bit, then smiles gently. Yusuke always has had a habit of being so pushy with him, ever closer and closer since he doesn’t understand the meaning of letting go of what he wants. And—oh, how he _wants_.

 

“Let’s visit a village today,” Akira finally says, taking his hand back. Yusuke doesn’t move, as though cross that anyone would refuse him. His tails sway impatiently, but he finally leans back when he realizes Akira is already walking down the mountain.

 

“Will this stop you from visiting that place?” Yusuke asks, fingers tight around Akira’s as they step through the forest.

 

“Yusuke,” the priest says.

 

“It was worth a try,” Yusuke looks off into the darkening skies. He looks wistful, sounds so sad. “If only it were me that you worshipped so.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Once, or twice, Ryuji finds Akira next to a river, bleeding and near-unconscious. The water tells him things—he knows the secrets of a lover three mountains away, the bloodied hands of a jealous nephew further upstream, the corrupt intents of a seemingly feeble man. All of these flow to the sea, wishes and hopes and odium through the water’s sweet, sweet voice.

 

He does not wish to hear them most of the time. But the water insists, and he cannot run away. And despite it all, there are times he is glad that he can understand the water and its cold whims, times where he is relieved to hear that Akira is safe and well. The water leads him because it is just as merciful as it is ruthless.

 

“Akira,” Ryuji says softly, fingers trembling as he brushes matted hair from the priest’s bruised face. “What happened to you?”

 

_He’s angered a god, angered a god; what a fool, what a fool!_

 

“Akira,” Ryuji repeats, desperate. His hands—they shake. He feels as though he might break thin human bones under his hands like he has so many times before. He knows the smell of an apocalypse anywhere, knows that Akira reeks of it all the time. But here, now, it oozes darkly from between Akira’s parted lips.

 

“I’m tired,” is the response over a splash of miasma.  Akira opens his cloudy eyes to a dragon’s tears, but they are unseeing. There is a horrid gash on his forehead, blood trickling in dark strokes where it has not already run dry. He is pale like a sickly moon. Ryuji wipes the ebony from Akira’s chin, his lips, yet it continues to drip.

 

“Where’s it hurt?” he asks while dragging Akira to the river, hoping his voice isn’t shaking as much as he feels it is. “Don’t leave me, Akira.”

 

Akira simply sighs, head lolling in Ryuji’s arms. He doesn’t fight back although it must hurt to be moved so, does not scream from the pain of water and its cathartic cruelty.  Neither of them are strangers to this pain. They both know the ice that shatters bone, the cold that splits flesh and rends their souls into jagged pieces. He longs to say something more, but Ryuji finds he cannot find the proper words as he watches the current pass over bloodstained robes.

 

Ebb and flow, like how Akira departs for death, but always comes back for him. For all of them, really; Ryuji has never felt so _wanted_ in this life.

 

There are golden scars on Akira’s hands. From the shrine. Ryuji knows; a kitsune had told him on the night of a full moon—when the waters are at their strongest.

 

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Akira says once he’s awake.

 

“Bastard,” Ryuji hisses, but it has no real bite. He could never be angry with Akira. Not when the waters tell him all manners of things. Of the blood in his shadow, and the heavy cup that cuts the flesh of his hands into ribbons, coating them in red.

 

Sometimes, when Akira leaves the golden shrine, the nightmares follow him. Sharp-beaked, beady-eyed crows with the cries of hundreds of dead. Ryuji tries throwing rocks at them while Akira sleeps, just because he can’t stand their hungry eyes. They leave momentarily, and Akira breathes easier, but they always return.

 

The next time Akira wakes, Ryuji’s arms are sore from throwing so many stones. It’s as though Akira knows everything, since he presses a simple black spell over Ryuji’s nape, for protection, for healing. He kisses Ryuji’s nose before he leaves, a soft stain of gratitude and blessings.

 

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
